


Shadows

by pinglederry



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Truth serum gone wrong, UST if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:38:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinglederry/pseuds/pinglederry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is grabbed during a mission. When UNCLE gets him back, though, is when things start to unravel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to and beta-read by kleenexwoman, who keeps telling me to stop overthinking things and just write. Here goes...

_I sit and look out a stranger's window at a strange sky_  
_And I don't see even one familiar star,_  
_I've travelled all the roads, I've been here and I've been there,_  
_When I turned around, I couldn't see my own footprints..._

      -- “A Pack of Cigarettes” (“Пачка сигарет”) -- КИНО

\---

Napoleon sits hunched over his too-big desk, staring at his wristcom and waiting for news. It's been almost a day since Illya's com dropped off the monitors. His team had been investigating a local Boko Haram cell with possible THRUSH ties when they were caught up in a firefight. The survivors staggered back in hours ago with valuable intel, but no further word on what'd become of their leader. With a sudden fierceness, Napoleon misses Waverly, with his anachronistic pipe and constant harrumphing that watched communicators never beeped, and wouldn't Illya be more comforted to know that Napoleon's making a dent in their endless paperwork instead of fretting himself to death? _If only he'd been out in the field, watching his partner's back the way he always used to..._

His wrist screen lights up with a chime, making him jump. "Mr. Solo, sir? We've got him!" The voice sounds young and breathless. "We're bringing him to Medical now. They just dumped him at our doorstep!" Napoleon surges to his feet, halfway to the door before his legs catch up with his brain and he staggers, reaching for his cane. He starts making his way down the hall at a much more controlled pace.

"How is he? Has he been injured?"

A new voice replies this time, older and calmer. "Doctor Barrows here, sir. There aren't any obvious injuries, and he doesn't seem to be in any pain. They've started the scans, but physically he appears unhurt." 

"'Physically', Doctor?"

"Well, sir, he's conscious, but pretty out of it. Doesn't look like a head injury, but he's not very keen on having his blood drawn at the moment. Saying some weird stuff. We think he might be having a slight adverse reaction to whatever they dosed him with." There are noises in the background, raised voices, and then what sounds like somebody shouting in Russian. Napoleon smirks.

"I'm on my way down, Doc. Try to keep him in one piece 'til I get there."

"Yessir."

\---

Barrows is waiting for him just outside of the entrance to the Medical wing, a med-reader in his hand and an odd expression on his face that Napoleon can't identify. Next to him waits a young man in the bland uniform of a new trainee, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. He snaps to attention as Napoleon comes into view, relaxing when he waves his hand at him in an informal "at ease". The doctor looks up as the trainee straightens, his expression distant. Napoleon stops in front of them, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Any updates?"

The doctor glances back at his med-reader and bobbles his head slightly from side to side. "He has a mild fever and an elevated heart rate, sir, but nothing alarming. Appears to have been dosed with some kind of modified truth serum, which is having unknown psychological effects. Scans confirm no internal or external injuries, outside of bruising consistent with spending some time in restraints, and a few scrapes from when they dumped him."

"Dumped him? I remember the initial call saying something about that, but I didn't really register it at the time." 

"Yes, sir!" the trainee pipes up. "It was like something out of an old gangster movie, sir! I'd just stepped out from the Ento's exit to take my lunch break, and this unmarked car screeches up right in front of me. The back door opens, and out falls Mr. Kuryakin! The man that shoved him out says 'There, now he's your problem', slams the door, and they speed off! The guy was wearing a mask and dark clothes with gloves, so I couldn't ID him, but he might’ve had a Nigerian accent. Do you think it's THRUSH, sir?"

Napoleon stares at him for a second, nonplussed. Had he ever been that young? He shakes himself. "Nothing's for sure yet, Agent..."

"Johnson, sir!" 

"Agent Johnson, but thank you for your information. Why don't you head over to Records and get the events down while they're still fresh in your mind?"

"Yes, sir!" The man straightens again, saluting. _Must've been recruited right from Basic._ With a nod at the doctor, he turns and trots off down the hall. Barrows and Napoleon share a wordless moment of commiseration. Napoleon searches his face, trying to pinpoint what's off about the doctor's expression.

"What aren't you telling me, Raj?"

Barrows sighs. "Like you said, sir, there's nothing concrete. Just... well, I think you should see for yourself. He's been asking for you."

\---

Napoleon follows Dr. Barrows carefully through the busy urgent care area, doing his best despite his somewhat-limited mobility to dodge the bustling medical staff. He nods in acknowledgment whenever a familiar face calls out to him from a bed; it’s been a difficult past couple of weeks. As they approach the section reserved for higher-ranking personnel, Napoleon can just pick out Illya’s smooth tenor over the noise, coming from one of the curtained alcoves near the back. The lyrics of the song he's singing are unfamiliar, but they remind him vaguely of the pile of dusty old records Illya'd inherited from his dad, which he only tended to pull out after a mission had gone particularly bad.

“ _I nikto ne khotel byt' vinovatym bez vina, i nikto ne khotel rukami zhar zagrebat'..._ ”

He trails off as Napoleon pushes aside the curtain. He's propped up against a pile of pillows in the hospital bed, picking listlessly at the cup of nutrient jello on the tray in front of him, his gaze far away. As Napoleon steps forward, Illya glances up at him, then sits up and breaks into a wide smile. “Napoleon!” Just as suddenly, his face falls. “No... no... you shouldn’t be here... I was wrong it’s worse I don’t know what I was thinking,” he mutters, struggling under his blanket. Napoleon realizes that, except for his left arm below the elbow, all of his limbs have been restrained, trapped against the bed. Dr. Barrows steps up to Napoleon’s side through the gap he'd made in the privacy curtains.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you. He was combative when he first woke up, muttering nonsense about shadows and trying to escape. When he realized he was outnumbered, he started trying to harm himself. We had to strap him down before he could do any serious damage.”

Illya’s struggles increase, his face contorting. “no no no No  _NO!_ ” The tray with its cup goes flying, bouncing off of the chair next to his bed and landing upended behind one of the wheels. Napoleon steps forward, his hand out in front of him as if to placate a startled horse.

“Illya, please, calm down; you’ll hurt yourself if you keep that up. ...Illya?  _Illya!_ ” He slaps his cane down across the base of the bed and grabs the man’s knee, pressing it flat against the mattress. Illya freezes, his expression collapsing in on itself. He hunches over, buries his face in his free hand, and begins to cry. Napoleon glances back at Dr. Barrows, at a loss. The doctor shrugs, just as confused. Napoleon inches closer, reaching out with his other hand to rub Illya’s shaking shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Illya. The effects can’t last forever. You’ll get through this.” The timbre of Ilya’s weeping shifts. He drops his hand to his lap and looks up at Napoleon, laughing, but there's nothing happy about the noise. Combined with his feverish gaze and pale, clammy skin, the effect is singularly disconcerting; so much so that Napoleon takes a faltering step back before he realizes what he's doing.

At that, Illya only laughs harder, head bowing back down as he scrubs at his face. “Finally he makes a sensible move! I always knew there was cleverness somewhere in that head of yours, my friend.” Napoleon steps back towards him, reaching out, but Illya’s hand snaps up, blocking him at the wrist. “No. Don’t touch me.”

“Illya?”

He looks up again, still smiling, his eyes red-rimmed and wet. “Don’t you see? Nobody can touch me.” His gaze drifts away. "Do you have any cigarettes, Napoleon? This would be easier with cigarettes."

Napoleon blinks at the non sequitur. "Illya, this building's been smoke-free for longer than either of us have been here. Besides, you haven't smoked since college. Outside of when you've had to for a mission, I mean."

"That's not true. We shared that cigar after Waverly's funeral, remember?"

Napoleon shrugs. "That was a special case. Why do you want one now?"

Illya shrugs back. "Like I said, it would be easier. Nothing seems quite as bad when you're smoking. The smoke is a cushion, it protects you..." he trails off, his eyes still distant. Napoleon waits. After a few seconds, Illya's gaze snaps back to his face. "Do you believe in fate?"

Napoleon chuckles. This is more familiar territory. "Well, that depends, I guess. What do you mean by 'fate'?" He gropes behind himself for the visitor's chair, dropping down onto the padded seat with a sigh and moving his cane so it leans against the side of the bed. He winks at Dr. Barrows, who nods and backs out of the alcove, pulling the curtain closed behind him. Illya doesn't seem to notice. His expression is uncertain and a little lost, and his focus has drifted again.

"What if you were born with a destiny, chosen to be a part of something beyond your control, and you didn't know about it? How would you feel, when you found out?"

Napoleon snorts, trying to hide his worry. This doesn't sound like Illya's usual rant. "A 'destiny'? That sounds suspiciously like 'God talk', Mr. Scientist."

Illya glares at him, irritated. "There  _is_  no God. We've established that."

Napoleon smiles. There's the Illya he knows. "Well, you've  _said_  we have, but I'm still waiting for some kind of--" Illya waves his hand, cutting him off.

"This is nothing like that. This is beyond silly games of gods and devils. Th--"

"Hey now--"

Illya slams his fist onto the bed. "Napoleon,  _listen_  to me! I had nothing to do with this. I didn't know, and now it's too late, it's out of my hands. All those shadows..."

Realizing what this must be about, Napoleon reaches out and grips Illya's fist in reassurance. "It's alright, Illya. Most of your men made it back just fine. We lost a few, but they died doing their duty, making sure the intel we needed would end up in our hands. I know it's still strange to be directing agents instead of being in the middle of the fray, but you're not getting any younger."

Illya's laugh is hollow. He's staring at their hands together on the bed. "Nobody's getting younger, but there's no time to grow old, now. It's all too late." He opens his fist, turning his hand until he's gripping Napoleon's, palm to palm. He lifts their joined hands to eye level. "No time for anything, anymore. Not even music." He looks up, naked fear on his face. "I don't want to disappear, Napoleon."

Napoleon squeezes his palm. "No one's disappearing, my friend. There's plenty of time left for jazz clubs and dinner with friends. It's hard to lose good people, but it's not the end of the world. I know everything seems muddled right now, but Barrows is already working on isolating whatever serum THRUSH used on you, and any minute we'll--" Illya slams their hands back down on the bed.

" _No!_  There's nothing you can do! They chose me, they chose all of us, before we were born, and there's nothing we can do now. This isn't about the mission; it's about  _everything_! The only thing THRUSH did to me was open my eyes to the end."

Napoleon's never seen these kinds of side-effects from a truth serum before. When UNCLE agents don't come back comatose or dead, they tend to come back loopy and harmless, not depressed and fatalistic. _Maybe if he just keeps Illya talking, it'll work itself out._ "What do you mean?" Illya stares past him, his expression haunted. 

"They wanted the truth, but they got the wrong truth, the  _real_  truth. I didn't know what I was saying until I said it, but I knew it was true. They couldn't stand it, didn't believe it, they gave me back. But it won't save them."

Napoleon waves his free hand in front of Illya's eyes. "Illya, you're not making sense. If this isn't about the mission, then for God's sake what  _is_  it about?"

"I told you: it's the end. We're not worth it anymore, and they seeded us here because they seem to appreciate irony. Out with a bang and with a whimper..." He re-focuses, suddenly lucid. "There are thousands of us, Napoleon, everywhere important. Even if there was time, you couldn't stop us all. But maybe, if we re-opened the shelters--" Illya chokes on his words. His whole body spasms, hunching inward, his head bowed and his eyes closed tight, Napleon's fist clenched against his chest. Just as quickly, he gasps and expands again, his shoulders going back and his chin lifting, eyes vacant and far away. He lets his breath back out slowly, his gaze shifting down to the bedspread. He untangles his fingers from Napoleon's and holds his hand in front of his face, staring at it as if in awe. “So soon?”

Nearby, just outside the curtained alcove, an irregular beeping noise starts up.

He looks up at the ceiling with a distant smile. “And, of course, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Napoleon's stomach churns with unease. His internal sense of danger, while atrophied from years behind a desk, is still fairly sensitive, and it's murmuring at him that something's wrong. Something big, much bigger than a bad batch of truth serum and a few dead agents.

"Illya," he asks carefully, "when you say 'it's the end', what  _exactly_  do you mean?"

Illya's earlier urgency is gone. Instead, he's staring around in open wonder, his hand curled into a loose fist. He turns to Napoleon, still smiling, as if he hasn't heard his question at all. "I--I didn't think it would be like this. It's almost like...oh, if only you could see." He reaches out, his fingers brushing down the side of Napoleon's face. His clamminess has faded, and now he's flushed, glowing. His fingers against Napoleon's cheek burn. "Maybe it won't be so bad. If it's quick, we'll barely have time to notice."

Napoleon grabs his outstretched hand, trying to ignore his queasy sense of wrongness, and almost drops it again when he feels how hot it is. "Illya. You were about to tell me something, about there being thousands of people who--Illya!" Illya shakes off his restraining hand and cups the side of Napoleon's jaw, eyes full of affection and something that seems almost like pity.

"So stubborn, so certain you know what's going on. I'd say I'll miss that, but you know--"

Napoleon gags abruptly, nausea overwhelming him, and pushes Illya's hand away to vomit into the trash receptacle next to the bed. When he looks up, wiping his mouth, Illya's fingers are red with blood. The beeping in the background has merged into one long, staticky wail, and he can hear people running. Doctor Barrows shoves aside the privacy curtain, a screeching machine in his hands.

"Solo! I don't know what's happening, but the counters are off the charts! We must be under attack! We have to get everyone out--" he staggers, choking. Napoleon turns sluggishly back to Illya, who's gone from flushed to almost incandescent. He's so tired.

"What..."

Illya's crying again, but still smiling. "We've had a good run, haven't we? Seen so many things, done so many things. Maybe it's for the best."

There's pain everywhere, and his vision is fading. He feels himself start to slide out of his chair, collapsing against the side of the bed. Illya strokes his hair.

"Goodbye, my friend." 

Then everything's white, and then nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: one-line mention of blood and character vomiting, Major Character Deaths
> 
> (Title reference: [Shadows of Hiroshima](http://www.walltowatch.com/view/32432/The+Everlasting+Shadows+Of+Hiroshima))
> 
> Song lyrics courtesy of my Russian friend, Victor, who was also the one to suggest this particular band and song when I told him what I wanted the story to be about.
> 
> Russian (romanized):  
> Ya sizhu i smotryu v chuzhoe nebo iz chuzhogo okna  
> I ne vizhu ni odnoy znakomoy zvezdy.  
> Ya khodil po vsem dorogam i tuda, i syuda,  
> Obernulsya - i ne smog razglyadet' sledy.
> 
> No esli est' v karmane pachka sigaret,  
> Znachit vse ne tak uzh plokho na segodnyashniy den'.  
> I bilet na samolet s serebristym krylom,  
> Chto, vzletaya, ostavlyaet zemle lish' ten'.
> 
> I nikto ne khotel byt' vinovatym bez vina,  
> I nikto ne khotel rukami zhar zagrebat',  
> A bez muzyki na miru smert' ne krasna,  
> A bez muzyki ne khochetsya propadat'.
> 
> No esli est' v karmane pachka sigaret,  
> Znachit vse ne tak uzh plokho na segodnyashniy den'.  
> I bilet na samolet s serebristym krylom,  
> Chto, vzletaya, ostavlyaet zemle lish' ten'.
> 
> English:  
> I sit and look out stranger's window at a strange sky  
> And I don't see even one familiar star,  
> I've travelled all the roads, I've been here and I've been there,  
> When I turned around, I couldn't see my own footprints...
> 
> But if I've got a pack of cigarettes in my pocket,  
> Then everything isn't so bad for today,  
> And a ticket for the plane with silver wings,  
> Which, lifting off, leaves the earth only a shadow...
> 
> And no one wants to be found guilty without guilt  
> And no one wants to take the heat with their bare hands,  
> And without music in the world even death isn't threatening,  
> And without music, no one wants to disappear...
> 
> But if I've got a pack of cigarettes in my pocket,  
> Then everything isn't so bad for today,  
> And a ticket for the plane with silver wings,  
> Which, lifting off, leaves the earth only a shadow...
> 
> Music video [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8DPZuZJh3gA).


End file.
